Lord and Mouser
by SeaStarr
Summary: A cat comes to Baker Street and makes himself at home. A series of short vignettes, not necessarily in chronological order.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first fanfic - just a silly idea I finally wrote down. Hope you enjoy it.  
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_Disclaimer: characters aren't mine._

"John, what is this?" Sherlock was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, steepled fingers resting against pursed lips.

"Um… a cat, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I know it's a cat! Don't be so obvious!"

The feline in question posed magnificently on the coffee table, with his tail curled sedately around his feet, and regarded the world's only consulting detective with an inscrutable expression. John smiled. The cat had adopted Mrs. Hudson earlier this week and their good-hearted landlady had taken him in. He already displayed a decidedly proprietary air regarding 221 Baker Street and its contents.

Sherlock returned the gaze steadily. As John watched, the detective's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, intent on the furry enigma before him. The cat's regard continued, unblinking.

"Excuse me. Are you having a staring contest with a cat?"

"What? No! Of course not!" Sherlock muttered even as he continued to meet the serene emerald eyes.

The tip of the grey tail flipped once and the cat abruptly yawned, exposing perfect – sharp – white teeth in a feral grin.

"Mrrff," he pronounced. Stretching languidly, the cat flowed from the coffee table to the floor and disappeared out the open doorway (which John had left ajar).

Sherlock looked to John, perplexed. "What was that?"

The doctor chuckled. The cat had inspected him yesterday. "You passed the test."

"Test?"

John couldn't resist. He grinned. "You just had a CAT scan."

_ I take no credit for the bad pun, but I couldn't resist putting it in... Thank you for reading. Constructive comments are very welcome._


	2. Chapter 2

For chronology, this comes before the cat's encounter with Sherlock...

Disclaimer: characters aren't mine, they're just fun to play with.

John surfaced slowly. Something had pulled him from a restless sleep. _Where….? Ah. That's right._ He was stretched out on the couch in the sitting room at Baker Street. Something was tickling his nose and he twitched it lazily in an effort to relieve the itch. As the cobwebs of sleep dissipated, he became aware of a warm, solid weight on his chest. _Hmm?_ Opening sleepy eyes, he had to suppress a start. Not 3 inches from his face hung a pair of inquisitive emerald eyes. He gazed back, brain still muzzy. The grey head cocked slightly to one side as if contemplating, then extended gingerly to sniff John's lips. Receiving no response, a small pink tongue flicked out and rasped the tip of the doctor's nose.

"Hey!" John protested the sand-paper caress.

The cat sat back, tucked his feet under his chest and purred, a satisfied deep rumble that sent vibrations through John's sternum. The feline's smug expression rivaled Sherlock's after a particularly clever string of deductions.

John heard a light step on the stairs.

"Here, kitty kitty!"

"Mrs. Hudson, he's in here!"

Their land lady poked her head around the partly open door and sighed with gentle exasperation.

"There you are, you naughty boy! I'm sorry, John. I hope he wasn't bothering you."

"No problem. It was just a bit of a surprise to wake up with an audience."

"All right, your highness," Mrs. Hudson gently scolded the wayward feline. "You go terrorize the mice and leave our lodgers alone."

The cat turned his head to give her a haughty stare before rising with immense dignity (as only a cat can), mincing in a tight circle on John's chest, and then curling back up in an impossibly small ball, his nose tucked under the tip of his grey tail.

"I guess he's off the clock. It's okay. He's kind of like a furry hot water bottle."

"Well, if you're sure…" The landlady gave John an apologetic look. "Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with him. I found him all wet and cold behind the bins last Tuesday, and I couldn't leave him out in the rain. It was storming so badly that day and my hip was acting up something fierce… Anyway, I let him in, gave him a nice dish of tuna, and he curled up right in front of the fire. You know, there's something very comforting about a cat sleeping by a fire. Made himself right at home, he did. "

"Yes, he certainly has." John smiled at the boneless, furry ball, purring contentment on his chest and felt a wave of well-being wash over his tired body.

With a fond _tut_, Mrs. Hudson retreated to her flat as the doctor, lulled by the soothing rumble, fell into a proper cat nap.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or followed so far. I really appreciate it! Hope you enjoy this next installment.

"_A cat was created when the lion sneezed." – Arabian proverb_

"Alright, don't try nothin' funny or your mate here gets it!"

The man tightened his arm across John's throat and pressed the muzzle of his gun into the back of the doctor's head. Sherlock glared.

"Anything," he said in clipped tones.

"That's right, you do what I say."

"No, it's 'don't try _anything_ funny' – and I don't find this situation at all amusing." The detective snapped back.

"Um, Sherlock, maybe don't annoy the man with the gun," John suggested in a slightly strangled voice.

"Shut it, both of you!" snarled the gunman. "You two and me are leaving now – "

"Oh really!" Sherlock exclaimed in disgust. "'You two and I'!"

"Not helping, Sherlock." John choked as his captor's arm further constricted his windpipe.

"Hm. You're right," the detective replied, frowning as he studied the shallow brow and piggish eyes of the man threatening his flat mate. "Not intelligent enough to comprehend even basic grammar."

"That's it! One more word and I put a bullet in him! I only need one of you!"

Again he jabbed the gun savagely into John's head. Sherlock held up his hands silently in grudging acquiescence, his lips pressed together in a grim line. For now he would have to behave. The glare he shot at the gunman promised excruciating, painful retribution if any harm came to his flat mate. Pig-Eyes ignored him and started to back slowly out the door towards the stairs, dragging the doctor with him.

Suddenly, a lean grey form darted out of the shadows on the landing and, with a frantic rumbling purr, wove through the gunman's legs.

"Shit! Get off, you!" the man yelled, trying to kick the interfering animal away.

The cat avoided the shoe with negligent ease, gave a blood curdling yowl of displeasure, and slapped at the offending ankle with all talons extended. The paw connected with a surprisingly loud _thwop!_ drawing blood and a howl from the gunman. Punctuating his actions with a ferocious series of phlegmy hisses, the angry feline wacked his target twice more, then dodged nimbly away as the man over-balanced and staggered.

As John and his captor teetered precariously at the top of the stairs, Sherlock darted in and grabbed a fistful of the good doctor's jumper, pulling him to safety. The gunman wind-milled his arms futilely, and, losing his battle with gravity, toppled headfirst off the landing. He crashed heavily down the stairs and fetched up at the bottom in an ungainly, moaning heap.

The cat stalked with immense dignity to the head of the stairs and glared down at his victim. Sherlock and John joined him.

"I'll phone Greg," John offered and disappeared back into the flat. Once he'd gone, Sherlock looked down at the cat and gave him a small, surreptitious smile.

"Well done," the detective praised softly.

Rumbling with self-satisfaction, the cat sat and began to nonchalantly clean his claws. _Purr-fect._


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for the follows, favorites and reviews.**

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"John, where are my ears?" Sherlock demanded from the kitchen.

"Attached to your head, I hope."

"Don't be stupid. I left them on the table overnight. They needed to ripen for an experiment."

John didn't even want to know what kind of experiment Sherlock had in mind.

"Don't know. Haven't seen them." John went back to his newspaper as the grey cat padded stealthily into the flat. "Ask the cat. Maybe he can sniff them out for you."

"Ha ha."

The cat ignored the two men and went about his feline business, prowling the sitting room, pausing to stare intently at a book left upturned on the floor. When the book failed to move, the grey form disappeared under the Sherlock's armchair.

_A short time later…_

"Ugh!" John wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Sherlock! I found the ears!"

He carefully deposited his slipper on the kitchen table in front of the detective. Tucked inside were two, definitely ripe aural appendages.

"What are they doing there?" demanded Sherlock, indignantly.

"Decomposing."

Something brushed against the doctor's leg and he looked down. Purring with great satisfaction, the cat wound around John's ankles several times then sat, looking up at him expectantly.

The detective scowled. "Apparently you have another fan. "

John absent-mindedly reached down to stroke the cat's head while he gave his flatmate a confused look. The rumbling purr increased as the grey feline head-butted the doctor's hand and then performed another languid circuit of John's ankles.

Sherlock snorted. "He left you presents – though why he would think my ears were appropriate…."

Realization dawned across the doctor's face, followed by a hint of mischief. "Maybe he thought you needed to listen to me more – he was trying to lend me your ears?"


	5. Chapter 5

The grey form trotted into the sitting room carrying a ball of red yarn as big as his head. The loose end trailing behind him like an additional tail, he somehow leapt gracefully onto the couch and deposited the ball in John's lap. The cat regarded John intently, radiating anticipation.

"What?" the doctor looked from his book to the ball of yarn to the practically quivering feline. "I think Mrs. Hudson might not approve of you taking that, you know?"

"_Mrrow." _The cat insistently head-butted John's arm.

"Look. No," he said, taking the yarn and tossing it onto the coffee table. "I don't know what you want and I'm trying to read."

The cat immediately jumped off the couch. A moment later the ball of yarn dropped again into John's lap. He looked up in surprise. "What?!"

"_Mrrow!" _ demanded the grey form, shifting eagerly.

"Really?" John held up the yarn and experimentally tossed it across the room.

The cat launched itself from the couch and dove after the ball. He pounced on his prey, scrabbling across the floor and batting the yarn ball around a chair, off the leg of the table, and around again, leaving a thin trail of red in his wake. After much acrobatic leaping that covered most of the room, he succeeded in capturing the now somewhat diminished ball. With a calculating look, the cat batted it towards John. The doctor deflected the yarn away and the cat plunged after it again. They repeated this game several times until the yarn ball had completely unraveled.

"_What_ is going on here?" demanded an incredulous baritone voice.

Blond and grey heads swiveled toward the doorway, one looking slightly sheepish, the other supremely innocent. Sherlock surveyed the yarn-twined sitting room. "Well?"

John glanced conspiratorially at the cat, who was now ignoring the humans and sedately licking his paw and languidly swiping it over his ear. An emerald eye seemed to wink at the doctor.

John smiled and offered, "Uh, cat's cradle?"


	6. Chapter 6

"_A cat may look at a king…" English proverb_

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A grey paw reached out slowly, hung for a moment above its target, then struck with lightening quickness, snagging the end of the loop and pulling it loose. He sat back and regarded his work proudly.

"Stop that, you hooligan!" ordered the British Government sternly.

The cat slyly looked up at Mycroft, then the grey paw snaked out again, untying the other shoe lace.

The diplomat viewed the recalcitrant feline with distaste. "The term 'domestic cat' is an oxymoron."

The feline regarded the speaker with a steady green gaze. With great dignity, he rose to his feet and leapt gracefully onto the couch. The cat settled on the cushion next to the British Government and proceeded to do his best impression of an Egyptian god – posture erect, ears perked straight up, tail curled around his forefeet, expression inscrutable.

Silence descended on the sitting room. From his chair, John watched, biting his tongue to keep from laughing. Mycroft and the cat sat solemnly side by side, each gazing forward, unmoving, waiting for Sherlock to make an appearance.

Minutes slipped by. Sherlock was clearly taking his time – just another round in the unending game of irritating his brother.

More waiting.

Mycroft's thumb began polishing a circle on his umbrella handle. As the time stretched on, the circles gave way to a soft tapping. With an air of gentle admonishment, the cat reached out a velvety grey paw and rested it on the human's hand. The fidgeting stilled.

The feline resumed his patient vigil, unpurr-turbed.


	7. Chapter 7

Without looking up from his microscope, Sherlock reached for his pen to notate a particularly fascinating reaction. _Yes, this confirms my hypothesis without any doubt! Case closed!_ He smirked in satisfaction as his hand groped for the writing implement. Not meeting with success, he looked up impatiently. The pen rested near the edge of the table, just out of easy reach. _How did it get over there…?_ He huffed to himself in annoyance. As he reached for the offending object, a seemingly disembodied grey paw darted over the table edge to slap at the pen and pull it over the side. The detective heard a light clatter as the pen hit the floor.

"Hey!"

A pair of grey ears, followed by a furtive flash of bright emerald eyes, appeared then just as quickly disappeared below the level of the table top. Sherlock heard more skittering under the table, then silence.

"Sherlock –" John broke off, momentarily distracted as a grey form streaked past him and into the sitting room. He turned, following the escaping feline with his eyes and frowning. "Wait. Was he carrying a –"

"Come back here!" The detective shouted after the retreating form. "Give that back! It's _mine_!"

"What's going on here?" the doctor inquired, amusement dancing in his brown eyes.

"That…_creature_… has stolen my pen! _My_ pen!" his friend yelled petulantly to the other room.

"Really?" laughed John.

Sherlock pouted. "I fail to see the humour."

"Of course you do. Because what's funny about a real cat burglar?"


	8. Chapter 8

John regarded the kitchen with dismay. Moist, sullen lumps decorated the counter top. The doctor recognized a spleen, a neatly halved kidney, a liver lobe, and was that?... Yes, it was. A lung lobe. There was a slimy smear of some unrecognizable fluid in the sink but no body part. His flatmate's whole attention was currently engaged by something fascinating (to him at least) under the microscope.

"Sherlock."

Silence.

"_Sherlock_," John repeated more forcefully and was rewarded with a grunt from the direction of the table. "What have we agreed about body parts on kitchen surfaces?"

The consulting detective continued his intense study of the slide, ignoring John. He might as well have been stone for all the response the doctor received. John shook his head, exasperated.

"I didn't complain about the eyeballs in the microwave – at least they were bagged. And I compromised on the bits and pieces in the fridge as long as you kept them on your shelf. But I draw the line at human organs on the kitchen counters! Sherlock?! Are you even listening?"

He received a sharp _are you an idiot?/what is your point?/go away, you're bothering me _glare before the grey eyes returned to their esoteric contemplations. A fine-boned hand waved dismissively in the doctor's direction, making shooing motions. Rolling his eyes at his flatmate's imperious behaviour, John retreated to the sitting room, muttering to himself about rude, self-centered gits with no respect for basic hygiene.

John settled into his chair and picked up a copy of the day's paper. A flash of grey in his peripheral vision caused him to turn toward the far corner of the room. The cat was batting something between his front paws with the skill and enthusiasm of a professional football player. From his vantage point in the armchair, John couldn't quite make out the object of the feline's fascination. Then a particularly enthusiastic swipe sent the object flying into the wall with a moist _splat!_ John winced as his imagination provided several possibilities for the currently unidentified projectile. With a sigh he rose from the chair and walked over to where the erstwhile cat toy was slowly sliding down the wall, leaving a slimy streak behind it. Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased. The cat regarded his work proudly. John looked from the mess on the wall to the feline.

"Sherlock! The cat's got your tongue!"


	9. Chapter 9

"There's the thief now!" announced Sherlock, gesturing dramatically toward the miscreant. "He has stolen 3 of my pens, a pair of ears, my tongue, and a piece of toast! Toast! I ask you, Lestrade, what does a cat want with toast? "

The feline in question stopped in the doorway, surveying the humans regally.

"Maybe he was hungry," the DI offered. He didn't even want to think about the ears – or the tongue.

"Ridiculous! Cats are obligate carnivores! They don't eat bread!" Sherlock retorted, outrage coloring his rich tones.

"Maybe he just likes the way I make toast," John said mildly. "Or, maybe he has a problem grasping the concept of personal property– like some consulting detectives I could name."

"You know what they say," Lestrade started. "Anything on the floor is a cat toy –"

"And anything not on the floor soon will be," finished John with a grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully and turned back to his scrutiny of the wooden figures neatly lined up on the kitchen table. They represented an impressive assortment of members of the genus _Columba_ that had belonged to a recently murdered ornithologist. Each statue was intricately carved and painted, work worthy of an Audubon illustration. Somewhere here there was an important clue….

Unconcerned with the maligning of his character, the cat calmly strolled into the room and then made a beeline for Lestrade, rubbing up against the DI's legs and purring.

"Does he have a name?" Lestrade asked, as he reached down to run an admiring hand along the sleek grey back. The cat arched languidly, the rumbling purr increasing.

"No." The consulting detective tried to dismiss the subject.

"I think Mrs. Hudson calls him GC," John volunteered.

"Oh, please. GC? – 'Grey Cat', no doubt," Sherlock said condescendingly. "That's not a name!"

"How about Robie?"

At Sherlock's blank look, Lestrade raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Oh, come on! It's a classic! You must have seen…. No, of course not. Look who I'm talking to. You're hopeless!"

John had trouble suppressing a laugh and it came out as a softly snorted chortle.

"If you must name him, at least choose something intelligent."

Lestrade and John waited for enlightenment but Sherlock returned to his intense contemplation of the wooden flock.

"Such as…" John finally prompted.

The consulting detective huffed and again tore his attention away from the fascinating puzzle. He gave them an _Are you serious? _glare.

"_Fine_." After a moment's thought, he pronounced "Autolycus" and waited expectantly.

John and Lestrade exchanged perplexed looks.

"Oh, please. _Autolycus_ – son of the Greek god Hermes, traveled with the Argonauts, taught Heracles to box, known in mythology as the Prince of Thieves. Very appropriate, I should think." Sherlock smirked.

"Prince of Thieves?" Lestrade repeated. "Then why not call him Robin?"

Sherlock frowned and tipped his head to one side, clearly not recognizing the reference.

The DI threw up his hands and turned to John. "Like I said, he's hopeless!"

The doctor grinned, mischief in his eyes. "Miaowara Tomokato," he offered.

"Really, John. What makes you think Lestrade would be familiar with the works of Mark Rogers."

"Oi! I've got a nephew…" protested the DI.

"Wait." John stared at his flatmate. "Why would you know about Samurai Cat but not Robin Hood? How does that work? No. No. Don't tell me."

The cat in question, tired of being ignored, leapt onto the table and uttered a string of vocalizations ranging from interrogative chirps to demanding_ mrrow's_.

"Oh, _stop_ your caterwalling!" Sherlock , already irritated with all the interruptions, slapped the table sharply in his frustration.

Startled, the cat levitated straight up and came down scrabbling for traction on the table before streaking out of the kitchen. In the process, his bushed tail and flailing limbs scattered the wooden figures, some falling with a loud clatter onto the floor.

John and Lestrade stood momentarily speechless as quiet descended over the room and Sherlock fumed silently.

The DI recovered first. "Well, that put the cat amongst the pigeons."

The doctor dissolved into laughter.

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**Sorry about the delay in posting. Life interfering with writing time…. **

**Extra points to anyone who recognizes where the name Robie came from. ( Hint: he was a character in a fantastic, classic movie starring Cary Grant.)**

**Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves of course refers to the movie by that name.**


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